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 And I am come to Mary's shrine To lay my hopes within her hand— Ah, in how fair and green a line The seedling resolutions stand.

THE CONFESSIONAL

My Sorrow diligent would sweep That dingy room infest With dust (thereby I mean my soul) Because she hath a Guest Who doth require that self-same room Be garnished for His rest.

And Sorrow (who had washed His feet Where He before had been) Took the long broom of Memory And swept the corners clean, Till in the midst of the fair floor The sum of dust was seen.

It lay there, settled by her tears, That fell the while she swept— Light fluffs of grey and earthly dregs; And over these she wept, For all were come since last her Guest Within the room had slept.

And, for nor broom nor tears had power To lift the clods of ill, She called one servant of her Guest